ALL    THAT    MATTERS 


"All     That     Matters" 
Prom    (j    painting    by    F  K  A  \  K    X.    L  E  Y  E  N  D  E  c  K  E  R. 


All 


by 
EDGAR  A.  GUEST 

With  Pictures 

by 
W.T.BENDA  M  .   L  .   BOWER 

F.   X.   LEYENDECKER 

F.   C.  YOHN  H.C.PITZ 

ROBERT    E.JOHNSTON 

HARVEY    E  M  R I C  H 

PRUETT  CARTER 


THE    REILLY    &    LEE    CO. 
Chicago 


Printed    in   the    United   States   of    America 


Copyright,    1922 
by 

THE  REILLY  &  LEE  Co. 


All   Rights   Reserved 


Illustrations    Copyrighted,    1920,    I  9  2  1 ,    1922 

by     The   International    Magazine    Company 

and   reproduced   by   special 

arrangement   with 
the    Cosmopolitan   Magazine 


Second   Printing  —  August,    1922 
Third   Printing  —  October,    1922 


All   That  Matters 


INDEX 


Poem  Page 

Accomplished   Care 66 

Afraid  of  His  Dad 94 

All  That  Matters 9 

Boy  and  His  Dad,  A 36 

Boy's  Ideal,  The 30 

Bread  and  Gravy 38 

Bulb  Planting  Time 67 

Call,  The 11 

Clinching  the  Bolt 50 

Common  Touch,  The 32 

Denial 72 

Effort 86 

Example 53 

Family  Doctor,  The 70 

Forgetful  Pa 18 

Frosting  Dish,  The 24 

God  Made  This  Day  For  Me 16 

Grate  Fire,  The 40 

Harder  Part,  The 62 

His  Other  Chance 68 

His  Pa 52 

Homely  Man,  The 76 

Joys  We  Miss,  The 44 

Just  Half  of  That,  Please 31 

Just  Like  a  Man 48 

Kindly  Neighbor,  The 42 

Life 80 

Little  Feet 46 

Living 88 

Lonely  Old  Fellow,  The 82 

Marjorie 33 

Mother  and  the  Baby 12 

Motherhood 20 

Need,  The 56 

Newspaper  Man,  The 34 


Old-Fashioned  Letters 14 

One  In  Ten,  The 91 

Play  the  Game 26 

Playing  For  Keeps 22 

Service 96 

Somebody  Else 84 

Success 8 1 

Tears  Expressive,  The 43 

Ten-Fingered  Mice 58 

Things  They  Mustn't  Touch,  The 60 

To  a  Young  Man 92 

Unchangeable  Mother 78 

Until  She  Died 10 

Warm  House  and  a  Ruddy  Fire,  A 90 

When  the  Young  are  Grown 28 

Winding  the  Clock 54 

Workman's  Dream,  The 74 

Youth     64 


;////     That     Matters  " 
is     Dedicated 
To     My     Wife 

Who     Is 
All     To     Me 

E.  A.  G. 


ALL  THAT   MATTERS 

WHEN  all  that  matters  shall  be  written  down 

And  the  long  record  of  our  years  is  told, 

Where  sham,  like  flesh,  must  perish  and  grow  cold; 

When  the  tomb  closes  on  our  fair  renown 

And  priest  and  layman,  sage  and  motleyed  clown 

Must  quit  the  places  which  they  dearly  hold, 

What  to  our  credit  shall  we  find  enscrolled? 

And  what  shall  be  the  jewels  of  our  crown? 

I  fancy  we  shall  hear  to  our  surprise 

Some  little  deeds  of  kindness,  long  forgot, 

Telling  our  glory,  and  the  brave  and  wise 

Deeds  which  we  boasted  often,  mentioned  not. 

God  gave  us  life  not  just  to  buy  and  sell, 

And  all  that  matters  is  to  live  it  well. 


[9] 


UNTIL   SHE    DIED 

UNTIL  she  died  we  never  knew 

The  beauty  of  our  faith  in  God. 

We'd  seen  the  summer  roses  nod 
And  wither  as  the  tempests  blew, 

Through   many  a   spring  we'd   lived   to   see 

The  buds  returning  to  the  tree. 

We  had  not  felt  the  touch  of  woe; 

Wha£  cares  had  come,  had  lightly  flown; 

Our  burdens  we  had  borne  alone — 
The  need  of  God  we  did  not  know. 

It  seemed   sufficient    through   the   days 

To  think  and  act  in  worldly  ways. 

And  then  she  closed  her  eyes  in  sleep; 

She  left  us  for  a  little  while; 

No  more  our  lives  would  know  her  smile. 
And  oh,  the  hurt  of  it  went  deep ! 

It  seemed  to  us  that  we  must  fall 

Before  the  anguish  of  it  all. 

Our  faith,  which  had  not  known  the  test, 
Then  blossomed  with  its  comfort  sweet, 
Promised  that  some  day  we  should  meet 

And  whispered  to  us:     "He  knows  best." 
And  when  our  bitter  tears  were  dried, 
We  found  our  faith  was  glorified. 


[10] 


THE   CALL 

I  MUST  get  out  to  the  woods  again,  to  the  whispering 

tree,  and  the  birds  a-wing, 
Away  from  the  haunts  of  pale-faced  men,  to  the  spaces 

wide  where  strength  is  king; 
I  must  get  out  where  the  skies  are  blue  and  the  air  is 

clean  and  the  rest  is  sweet, 
Out  where  there's  never  a  task  to  do  or  a  goal  to  reach 

or  a  foe  to  meet. 

I   must  get   out   on  the  trails  once  more  that  wind 

through  shadowy  haunts  and  cool, 
Away  from  the  presence  of  wall  and  door,   and  see 

myself  in  a  crystal  pool; 
I  must  get  out  with  the  silent  things,  where  neither 

laughter  nor  hate  is  heard, 
Where  malice  never  the  humblest  stings  and  no  one  is 

hurt  by  a  spoken  word. 

Oh,  I've  heard  the  call  of  the  tall  white  pine,   and 

heard  the  call  of  the  running  brook; 
I'm  tired  of  the  tasks  which  each  day  are  mine,  I'm 

weary  of  reading  a  printed  book; 
I  want  to  get  out  of  the  din  and  strife,  the  clang  and 

clamor  of  turning  wheel, 
And  walk  for  a  day  where  life  is  life,  and  the  joys  are 

true  and  the  pictures  real. 


MOTHER  AND   THE   BABY 

MOTHER  and  the  baby!     Oh,  I  know  no  lovelier  pai 
For  all  the  dreams  of  all  the  world  are  hovering  'roun 

them  there; 

And  be  the  baby  in  his  cot  or  nestling  in  her  arms, 
The  picture  they  present    is    one   with    never-fadir 

charms. 

Mother  and  the  baby — and  the  mother's  eye  aglow 
With  joys  that  only  mothers   see   and   only  mothe 

know! 
And  here  is  all  there  is  to  strife  and  all   there   is   1 

fame, 
And  all  that  men  have  struggled  for  since  first  a  bab 

came. 

I  never  see  this  lovely  pair  nor  hear  the  mother  sing 
The  lullabies  of  babyhood,  but  I  start  wondering 
How  much  of  every  man  to-day  the  world  thinks  wi: 

or  brave 
Is  of  the  songs  his  mother  sang  and  of  the  strengi 

she  gave. 

"Just  like  a  mother!"     Oh,  to  be  so  tender  and  ; 

true, 
No  man  has  reached  so  high  a  plane  with  all  he's  dare 

to  do. 


[12] 


"Mother     And     The     Baby  " 

From  a  drawing  by  W.  T.  B  E  N  D  A. 


And  yet,  I  think  she  understands,  with  every  step  she 

takes 
And  every  care  that  she  bestows,  it  is  the  man  she 

makes. 

Mother  and  the  baby!     And  in  fancy  I  can  see 
Her  life  being  given  gladly  to  the  man  that  is  to  be, 
And    from    her   strength   and   sacrifice  and  from  her 

lullabies, 
She  dreams  and  hopes  and  nightly  prays  a  strong  man 

shall  arise. 


OLD-FASHIONED    LETTERS 

OLD-FASHIONED  letters!     How  good  they  were! 

And  nobody  writes  them,  now; 
Never  at  all  comes  in  the  scrawl 
On  the  written  pages  which  told  us  all 
The  news  of  town  and  the  folks  we  knew, 
And  what  they  had  done  or  were  going  to  do. 

It  seems  we've  forgotten  how 
To  spend  an  hour  with  our  pen  in  hand 
To  write  in  the  language  we  understand. 

Old-fashioned  letters  we  used  to  get 

And  ponder  each  fond  line  o'er; 
The  glad  words  rolled  like  running  gold, 
As  smoothly  their  tales  of  joy  they  told, 
And  our  hearts  beat  fast  with  a  keen  delight 
As  we   read    the    news    they  were    pleased   to   write 

And  gathered  the  love  they  bore. 
But  few  of  the  letters  that  come  to-day 
Are  penned  to  us  in  the  old-time  way. 

Old-fashioned  letters  that  told  us  all 

The  tales  of  the  far  away; 
Where  they'd  been  and  the  folks  they'd  seen; 
And  better  than  any  fine  magazine 
Was  the  writing  too,  for  it  bore  the  style 
Of  a  simple  heart  and  a  sunny  smile, 

And  was  pure  as  the  breath  of  May. 
Some  of  them  oft  were  damp  with  tears, 
But  those  were  the  letters  that  lived  for   years. 

[HI 


Old-fashioned  letters!     How  good  they  were! 

And,  oh,  how  we  watched  the  mails; 
But  nobody  writes  of  the  quaint  delights 
Of  the  sunny  days  and  the  merry  nights 
Or  tells  us  the  things  that  we  yearn  to  know — 
That  art  passed  out  with  the  long  ago, 

And  lost  are  the  simple  tales; 
Yet  we  all  would  happier  be,  I  think, 
If  we'd  spend  more  time  with  our  pen  and  ink. 


[IS] 


GOD  MADE 
THIS  DAY  FOR  ME 

JES'  THE  sort  o'  weather  and  jes'  the  sort  o'  sky 

Which  seem  to  suit  my  fancy,  with  the  white  clouds 
driftin'  by 

On  a  sea  o'  smooth  blue  water.  Oh,  I  ain't  an  ego 
tist, 

With  an  "I"  in  all  my  thinkin',  but  I'm  willin'  to 
insist 

That  the  Lord  that  made  us  humans  an'  the  birds  in 
every  tree 

Knows  my  special  sort  o'  weather  an'  He  made  this 
day  fer  me. 

This  is  jes'  my  style  o'  weather — sunshine  floodin'  all 

the  place, 
An'  the  breezes  from  the  eastward  blowin'  gently  on 

my  face. 
An7  the  woods  chock-full  o'  singin'  till  you'd  think 

birds  never  had 

A  single  care  to  fret  'em  or  a  grief  to  make  'em  sad. 
Oh,  I  settle  down  contented  in  the  shadow  of  a  tree, 
An'  tell  myself  right  proudly  that  the  day  was  made 

fer  me. 


[16] 


"God     Made      This     Day     For     Me' 

From  a  painting  by  M.  L.  BOWER. 


It's  my  day,  sky  an'  sunshine,  an'  the  temper  o'  the 
breeze. 

Here's  the  weather  I  would  fashion  could  I  run  things 
as  I  please — 

Beauty  dancin'  all  around  me,  music  ringin'  every 
where, 

Like  a  weddin'  celebration.  Why,  I've  plumb  fergot 
my  care 

An'  the  tasks  I  should  be  doin'  fer  the  rainy  days  to 
be, 

While  I'm  huggin'  the  delusion  that  God  made  this 
day  fer  me. 


FORGETFUL   PA 

MY  PA  says  that  he  used  to  be 

A  bright  boy  in  geography; 

An'  when  he  went  to  school  he  knew 

The  rivers  an'  the  mountains,  too, 

An'  all  the  capitals  of  states 

An'  bound'ry  lines  an'  all  the  dates 

They  joined  the  union.     But  last  night 

When  I  was  studyin'  to  recite 

I  asked  him  if  he  would  explain 

The  leading  industries  of  Maine — 

He  thought  an'   thought   an'   thought   a   lot, 

An'  said,  "I  knew,  but  I've  forgot." 

My  Pa  says  when  he  was  in  school 
He  got  a  hundred  as  a  rule; 
An'  grammar  was  a  thing  he  knew 
Becoz  he  paid  attention  to 
His  teacher,  an'  he  learned  the  way 
To  write  good  English,  an'  to  say 
The  proper  things,  an'  I  should  be 
As  good  a  boy  in  school  as  he. 
But  once  I  asked  him  could  he  give 
Me  help  with  the  infinitive- 
He  scratched   his  head   and  said:  "Great   Scott! 
I  used  to  know,  but  I've  forgot." 


18] 


My  Pa  says  when  he  was  a  boy 
Arithmetic  was  just  a  toy; 
He  learned  his  tables  mighty  fast 
An'  every  term  he  always  passed, 
An'  had  good  marks,  an'  teachers  said 
"That  youngster  surely  has  a  head." 
But  just  the  same  I  notice  now 
Most  every  time  I  ask  him  how 
To  find  the  common  multiple, 
He  says,  "That's  most  unusual! 
Once  I'd  have  told  you  on  the  spot, 
But  somehow,  sonny,  I've  forgot." 
I'm  tellin'  you  just  what  is  what, 
My  Pa's  forgot  an  awful  lot! 


19] 


MOTHERHOOD 

I  WONDER  if  he'll  stop  to  think, 

When  the  long  years  have  traveled  by, 
Who  heard  his  plea:     "I  want  a  drink!" 

Who  was  the  first  to  hear  him  cry? 
I  wonder  if  he  will  recall 

The  patience  of  her  and  the  smile, 
The  kisses  after  every  fall, 

The  love  that  lasted  all  the  while? 

I  wonder,  as  I  watch  them  there,. 

If  he'll  remember,  when  he's  grown, 
How  came  the  silver  in  her  hair 

And  why  her  loveliness  has  flown? 
Yet  thus  my  mother  did  for  me, 

Night  after  night  and  day  by  day, 
For  such  a  care  I  used  to  be, 

As  such  a  boy  I  used  to  play. 

I  know  that  I  was  always  sure 

Of  tenderness  at  mother's  knee, 
That  every  hurt  of  mine  she'd  cure, 

And  every  fault  she'd  fail  to  see. 
But  who  recalls  the  tears  she  shed, 

And  all  the  wishes  gratified, 
The  eager  journeys  to  his  bed, 

The  pleas  which  never  she  denied? 


[20] 


''Motherhood  ' 

From  a  painting  by  ROBERT  E.  JOHNSTON. 


I  took  for  granted,  just  as  he, 

The  boundless  love  that  mother  gives, 
But  watching  them  I've  come  to  see 

Time  teaches  every  man  who  lives 
How  much  of  him  is  not  his  own; 

And  now  I  know  the  countless  ways 
By  which  her  love  for  me  was  shown, 

And  I  recall  forgotten  days. 

Perhaps  some  day  a  little  chap 

As  like  him  as  he's  now  like  me, 
Shall  climb  into  his  mother's  lap, 

For  comfort  and  for  sympathy, 
And  he  shall  know  what  now  I  know, 

And  see  through  eyes  a  trifle  dim, 
The  mother  of  the  long  ago 

Who  daily  spent  her  strength  for  him. 


[21] 


PLAYING   FOR    KEEPS 

I'VE  WATCHED  him  change  from  his  bibs  and  things, 

from  bonnets  known  as  "cute," 

To  little  frocks,  and  later  on  I  saw  him  don  a  suit; 
And    though    it  was   of   calico,   those  knickers  gave 

him  joy, 

Until  the  day  we  all  agreed  'twas  time  for  corduroy. 
I   say   I've    seen    the    changes    come,    it    seems   with 

bounds  and  leaps, 
But   here's   another  just   arrived — he's  playing  mibs 

for  keeps! 

The  guide  posts  of  his  life  fly  by.     The  boy  that  is 

to-day, 
To-morrow  morning  we  may   wake  to  find  has  gone 

away, 
And  in  his  place  will  be  a   lad  we've  never  known 

before, 
Older  and  wiser  in  his  ways,  and  filled  with  new-found 

lore. 
Now  here's  another  boy  to-day,  counting  his  marble 

heaps 
And  proudly  boasting  to  his  dad  he's  playing  mibs 

for  keeps! 

His  mother  doesn't  like  this  change.     She  says  it  is  a 

shame — 
That  since  he  plays  with  larger  boys,  he's  bound  to 

lose  the  game. 


[22] 


But  little  do  I  mind  his  loss;    I'm  more  concerned  to 

know 
The  way   he   acts  the  times  when  he  must   see   his 

marbles  go. 
And  oh,   I  hope  he  will   not   be   the   little  boy  who 

weeps 
Too  much  when  he  has  failed  to  win  while  playing 

mibs  for  keeps. 

Playing  for  keeps!  Another  step  toward  manhood's 
broad  estate! 

This  is  what  some  term  growing  up,  or  destiny,  or 
fate. 

Yet  from  this  game  with  marbles,  played  with  young 
sters  on  the  street, 

I  hope  will  come  a  larger  boy,  too  big  to  lie  or  cheat, 

And  by  these  mibs  which  from  his  clutch  another 
madly  sweeps, 

I  hope  he'll  learn  the  game  of  life  which  must  be 
played  for  keeps. 


[23] 


THE    FROSTING   DISH 

WHEN  I  was  just  a  little  tad 

Not  more  than  eight  or  nine, 
One  special  treat  to  make  me  glad 

Was  set  apart  as  "mine." 
On  baking  days  she  granted  me 

The  small  boy's  dearest  wish, 
And  when  the  cake  was  finished,  she 

Gave  me  the  frosting  dish. 

I've  eaten  chocolate  many  ways, 

I've  had  it  hot  and  cold; 
I've  sampled  it  throughout  my  days 

In  every  form  it's  sold. 
And  though  I  still  am  fond  of  it, 

And  hold  its  flavor  sweet, 
The  icing  dish,  I  still  admit, 

Remains  the  greatest  treat. 

Never  has  chocolate  tasted  so, 

Nor  brought  to  me  such  joy 
As  in  those  days  of  long  ago 

When  I  was  but  a  boy, 
And  stood  beside  my  mother  fair, 

Waiting  the  time  when  she 
Would  gently  stoop  to  kiss  me  there 

And  hand  the  plate  to  me. 


[HI 


The     Frosting     Dish  ': 

From  a  painting  by  H.  C.   P  i  T  z, 


Now  there's  another  in  my  place 

Who  stands  where  once  I  stood. 
And  watches  with  an  upturned  face 

And  waits  for  "something  good." 
And  as  she  hands  him  spoon  and  plate 

I  chuckle  low  and  wish 
That  I  might  be  allowed  to  wait 

To  scrape  the  frosting  dish. 


[25] 


PLAY   THE   GAME 

WHEN  the  umpire  calls  you  out, 
It's  no  use  to  stamp  and  shout, 
Wildly  kicking  dust  about — 

Play  the  game! 
And  though  his  decision  may 
End  your  chances  for  the  day, 
Rallies  often  end  that  way — 

Play  the  game! 

When  the  umpire  shouts :    "Strike  two !" 
And  the  ball  seems  wide  to  you, 
There  is  just  one  thing  to  do: 

Play  the  game! 

Keep  your  temper  at  the  plate, 
Grit  your  teeth  and  calmly  wait, 
For  the  next  one  may  be  straight 

Play  the  game! 

When  you  think  the  umpire's  wrong, 

Tell  him  so,  but  jog  along; 

Nothing's  gainec1  by  language  strong — 

Play  the  game! 
For  his  will  must  be  obeyed 
Wheresoever  baseball's  played, 
Take  his  verdict  as  it's  made — 

Play  the  game ! 


[26] 


Son  of  mine,  beyond  a  doubt, 
Fate  shall  often  call  you  "out," 
But  keep  on,  with  courage  stout — 

Play  the  game! 
In  the  battlefield  of  men 
There'll  come  trying  moments  when 
You  shall  lose  the  verdict — then 

Play  the  game! 

There's  an  umpire  who  shall  say 
You  have  missed  your  greatest  play, 
And  shall  dash  your  hopes  away — 

Play  the  game! 
You  must  bow  unto  his  will 
Though  your  chance  it  seems  to  kill, 
And  you  think  he  erred,  but  still 

Play  the  game! 

For  the  Great  Umpire  above 
Sees  what  we  see  nothing  of, 
By  His  wisdom  and  His  love — 

Play  the  game! 

Keep  your  faith  in  Him  although 
His  grim  verdicts  hurt  you  so, 
At  His  Will  we  come  and  go — 

Play  the  game! 


[27] 


WHEN  THE 
YOUNG  ARE   GROWN 

ONCE  the  house  was  lovely,  but  it's  lonely  here  to-day, 
For  time  has  come  an'  stained  its  walls  an'  called  the 

young  away; 
An'  all  that's  left  for  mother  an'  for  me  till  life  is 

through 
Is  to  sit  an'  tell  each   other  what   the  children   used 

to  do. 

We  couldn't  keep  'em  always  an'  we  knew  it  from  the 

start; 
We  knew  when  they  were  babies  that  some  day  we'd 

have  to  part. 
But  the  years  go  by  so  swiftly,  an'  the  littlest  one  has 

flown, 
An'  there's  only  me  an'  mother  now  left  here  to  live 

alone. 

Oh,  there's  just  one  consolation,  as  we're  sittin'  here 

at  night, 
They've  grown  to  men  an'  women,  an'  we  brought  'em 

up  all  right; 
We've  watched  'em  as  we've  loved   'em   an'  they're 

splendid,  every  one, 
An'  we  feel  the  Lord  won't  blame  us  for  the  way  our 

work  was  done. 


[28] 


When     The     Young     Are     Grown  ': 

From  a  painting  by  ROBERT  E.  JOHNSTON. 


They're  clean,  an'  kind  an'  honest,  an'  the  world  re 
spects  'em,  too; 

That's  the  dream  of  parents  always,  an'  our  dreams 
have  all  come  true. 

So  although  the  house  is  lonely  an'  sometimes  our  eyes 
grow  wet, 

We  are  proud  of  them  an'  happy  an'  we've  nothing  to 
regret. 


[29] 


THE    BOY'S   IDEAL 

I  MUST  be  fit  for  a  child  to  play  with, 

Fit  for  a  youngster  to  walk  away  with; 
Fit  for  his  trust  and  fit  to  be 
Ready  to  take  him  upon  my  knee; 

Whether  I  win  or  I  lose  my  fight, 

I  must  be  fit  for  my  boy  at  night. 

I  must  be  fit  for  a  child  to  come  to, 
Speech  there  is  that  I  must  be  dumb  to; 
I  must  be  fit  for  his  eyes  to  see, 
He  must  find  nothing  of  shame  in  me; 
Whatever  I  make  of  myself,  I  must 
Square  to  my  boy's  unfaltering  trust. 

I  must  be  fit  for  a  child  to  follow, 
Scorning  the  places  where  loose  men  wallow; 
Knowing  how  much  he  shall  learn  from  me, 
I  must  be  fair  as  I'd  have  him  be; 
I  must  come  home  to  him,  day  by  day, 
Clean  as  the  morning  I  went  away. 

I  must  be  fit  for  a  child's  glad  greeting, 
His  are  eyes  that  there  is  no  cheating; 
He  must  behold  me  in  every  test, 
Not  at  my  worst,  but  my  very  best; 
He  must  be  proud  when  my  life  is  done 
To  have  men  know  that  he  is  my  son. 


JUST   HALF   OF  THAT,  PLEASE 

GRANDMOTHER  says  when  I  pass  her  the  cake : 

"Just  half  of  that,  please." 
If  I  serve  her  the  tenderest  portion  of  steak: 

"Just  half  of  that,  please." 
And  be  the  dessert  a  rice  pudding  or  pie, 
As  I  pass  Grandma's  share  she  is  sure  to  reply, 
With  the  trace  of  a  twinkle  to  light  up  her  eye: 

"Just  half  of  that,  please." 

I've  cut  down  her  portions  but  still  she  tells  me: 

"Just  half  of  that,  please." 
Though  scarcely  a  mouthful  of  food  she  can  see: 

"Just  half  of  that,  please." 

If  I  pass  her  the  chocolates  she  breaks  one  in  two, 
There's  nothing  so  small  but  a  smaller  will  do, 
And  she  says,  perhaps  fearing  she's  taking  from  you: 

"Just  half  of  that,  please." 

When  at  last  Grandma  leaves  us  the  angels  will  hear: 

"Just  half  of  that,  please." 
When  with  joys  for  the  gentle  and  brave  they  appear: 

"Just  half  of  that,  please." 

And  for  fear  they  may  think  she  is  selfish  up  there, 
Or  is  taking  what  may  be  a  young  angel's  share, 
She  will  say  with  the  loveliest  smile  she  can  wear: 

"Just  half  of  that,  please." 


THE   COMMON  TOUCH 

I  WOULD  not  be  too  wise — so  very  wise 

That  I  must  sneer  at  simple  songs  and  creeds, 

And  let  the  glare  of  wisdom  blind  my  eyes 
To  humble  people  and  their  humble  needs. 

I  would  not  care  to  climb  so  high  that  I 
Could  never  hear  the  children  at  their  play, 

Could  only  see  the  people  passing  by, 

Yet  never  hear  the  cheering  words  they  say. 

I  would  not  know  too  much — too  much  to  smile 
At  trivial  errors  of  the  heart  and  hand, 

Nor  be  too  proud  to  play  the  friend  the  while, 
And  cease  to  help  and  know  and  understand. 

I  would  not  care  to  sit  upon  a  throne, 
Or  build  my  house  upon  a  mountain-top. 

Where  I  must  dwell  in  glory  all  alone 

And  never  friend  come  in  or  poor  man  stop. 

God  grant  that  I  may  live  upon  this  earth 

And  face  the  tasks  which  every  morning  brings, 

And  never  lose  the  glory  and  the  worth 
Of  humble  service  and  the  simple  things. 


[32] 


The     Common      Touch  ' 

From  a  fainting  by  HARVEY  E  M  R  i  c  H. 


MARJORIE 

THE  HOUSE  is  as  it  was  when  she  was  here; 

There's    nothing    changed  at  all  about  the  place; 
The  books  she  loved  to  read  are  waiting  near 

As  if  to-morrow  they  would  see  her  face; 
Her  room  remains  the  way  it  used  to  be, 

Here  are  the  puzzles  that  she  pondered  on: 
Yet  since  the  angels  called  for  Marjorie 

The  joyous  spirit  of  the  home  has  gone. 

All  things  grew  lovely  underneath  her  touch, 

The  room  was  bright  because  it  knew  her  smile; 
From  her  the  tiniest  trinket  gathered  much, 

The  cheapest  toy  became  a  thing  worth  while; 
Yet  here  are  her  possessions  as  they  were, 

No  longer  joys  to  set  the  eyes  aglow; 
To-day,  as  we,  they  seem  to  mourn  for  her, 

And  share  the  sadness  that  is  ours  to  know. 

Half  sobbing  now,  we  put  her  games  away, 

Because,  dumb  things,  they  cannot  understand 
Why  never  more  shall  Marjorie  come  to  play, 

And  we  have  faith  in  God  at  our  command. 
These  toys  we  smiled  at  once,  now  start  our  tears, 

They  seem  to  wonder  why  they  lie  so  still, 
They  call  her  name,  and  will  throughout  the  years — 

God,  strengthen  us  to  bow  unto  Thy  will. 


[33] 


THE   NEWSPAPER   MAN 

BIT  OF  a  priest  and  a  bit  of  sailor, 
Bit  of  a  doctor  and  bit  of  a  tailor, 
Bit  of  a  lawyer,  and  bit  of  detective, 
Bit  of  a  judge,  for  his  work  is  corrective; 
Cheering  the  living  and  soothing  the  dying, 
Risking  all  things,  even  dare-devil  flying; 
True  to  his  paper  and  true  to  his  clan — 
Just  look  him  over,  the  newspaper  man. 

Sleep!     There  are  times  that  he'll  do  with  a  little, 
Work  till  his  nerves  and  his  temper  are  brittle; 
Fire  cannot  daunt  him,  nor  long  hours  disturb  him, 
Gold  cannot  buy  him  and  threats  cannot  curb  him; 
Highbrow  or  lowbrow,  your  own  speech  he'll  hand 

you, 

Talk  as  you  will  to  him,  he'll  understand  you; 
He'll  go  wherever  another  man  can — 
That  is  the  way  of  the  newspaper  man. 

Surgeon,  if  urgent  the  need  be,  you'll  find  him, 
Ready  to  help,  nor  will  dizziness  blind  him; 
He'll  give  the  ether  and  never  once  falter, 
Say  the  last  rites  like  a  priest  at  the  altar; 
Gentle  and  kind  with  the  weak  and  the  weary, 
Which  is  proved  now  and  then  when  his  keen   eye 

grows  teary; 

Facing  all  things  in  life's  curious  plan — 
That  is  the  way  of  the  newspaper  man. 


[34] 


One  night  a  week  may  he  rest  from  his  labor, 
One  night  at  home  to  be  father  and  neighbor; 
Just  a  few  hours  for  his  own  bit  of  leisure, 
All  the  rest's  gazing  at  other  men's  pleasure, 
All  the  rest's  toiling,  and  yet  he  rejoices, 
All  the  world  is,  and  that  men  do,  he  voices — 
Who  knows  a  calling  more  glorious  than 
The  day-by-day  work  of  the  newspaper  man? 


[35] 


A   BOY  AND    HIS   DAD 

A  BOY  and  his  dad  on  a  fishing-trip — 
There  is  a  glorious  fellowship! 
Father  and  son  and  the  open  sky 
And  the  white  clouds  lazily  drifting  by, 
And  the  laughing  stream  as  it  runs  along 
With  the  clicking  reel  like  a  martial  song, 
And  the  father  teaching  the  youngster  gay 
How  to  land  a  fish  in  the  sportsman's  way. 

I  fancy  I  hear  them  talking  there 
In  an  open  boat,  and  the  speech  is  fair. 
And  the  boy  is  learning  the  ways  of  men 
From  the  finest  man  in  his  youthful  ken. 
Kings,  to  the  youngster,  cannot  compare 
With  the  gentle  father  who's  with  him  there. 
And  the  greatest  mind  of  the  human  race 
Not  for  one  minute  could  take  his  place. 

Which  is  happier,  man  or  boy? 
The  soul  of  the  father  is  steeped  in  joy, 
For  he's  finding  out,  to  his  heart's  delight, 
That  his  son  is  fit  for  the  future  fight. 
He  is  learning  the  glorious  depths  of  him, 
And  the  thoughts  he  thinks  and  his  every  whim; 
And  he  shall  discover,  when  night  comes  on, 
How  close  he  has  grown  to  his  little  son. 


[36] 


A     Boy     And     His     D  a  d  " 

From   a  fainting  by   M.  L.   ROWER. 


A  boy  and  his  dad  on  a  fishing-trip— 
Builders  of  life's  companionship! 
Oh,  I  envy  them,  as  I  see  them  there 
Under  the  sky  in  the  open  air, 
For  out  of  the  old,  old  long-ago 
Come  the  summer  days  that  I  used  to  know, 
When  I  learned  life's  truths  from  my  father's  lips 
As  I  shared  the  joy  of  his  fishing-trips. 


[37] 


BREAD   AND   GRAVY 

THERE'S  a  heap  o'  satisfaction  in  a  chunk  o'  pumpkin 
pie, 

An*  I'm  always  glad  I'm  livin'  when  the  cake  is 
passin'  by; 

An'  I  guess  at  every  meal-time  I'm  as  happy  as  can 
be, 

For  I  like  whatever  dishes  Mother  gets  for  Bud  an' 
me; 

But  there's  just  one  bit  of  eatin'  which  I  hold 
supremely  great, 

An'  that's  good  old  bread  and  gravy  when  I've  fin 
ished  up  my  plate. 

I've  eaten  fancy  dishes  an'  my  mouth  has  watered, 

too; 
I've  been  at  banquet  tables  an'   I've  run  the  good 

things  through; 
I've  had  sea  food  up  in   Boston,   I've  had  pompano 

down  South, 
For  most  everything  that's  edible   I've  put   into  my 

mouth; 

But  the  finest  treat  I  know  of,  now  I  publicly  relate, 
Is  a  chunk  of  bread  and  gravy  when  I've  finished  up 

my  plate. 

Now  the  epicures  may  snicker  and  the  hotel  chefs  may 

smile, 
But  when  it  comes  to  eating  I  don't  hunger  much  for 

style; 

[38] 


For  an  empty  man  wants  fillin'  an'  you  can't  do  that 

with  things 
Like  breast  o'  guinea  under  glass,  or  curried   turkey 

wings— 
You  want  just  plain  home  cookin'  an'  the  chance  to 

sit  an'  wait 
For  a  piece  o'  bread  an'  gravy  when  you've  finished 

up  your  plate. 

Oh,  it  may  be  I  am  common  an'  my  tastes  not  much 
refined, 

But  the  meals  which  suit  my  fancy  are  the  good  old- 
fashioned  kind, 

With  the  food  right  on  the  table  an'  the  hungry  kids 
about 

An*  the  mother  an'  the  father  handing  all  the  good 
things  out, 

An'  the  knowledge  in  their  presence  that  I  needn't 
fear  to  state, 

That  I'd  like  some  bread  an'  gravy  when  I've  finished 
up  my  plate. 


[39] 


THE   GRATE   FIRE 

I'M  SORRY  for  a  fellow  if  he  cannot  look  and  see 

In  a  grate  fire's  friendly  flaming  all  the   joys  which 

used  to  be. 

If  in  quiet  contemplation  of  a  cheerful  ruddy  blaze 
He  sees  nothing  there  recalling  all  his  happy  yesterdays, 
Then  his  mind  is  dead  to  fancy  and  his  life  is  bleak 

and  bare, 
And    he's    doomed    to    walk    the    highways    that    are 

always  thick  with  care. 

When  the  logs  are  dry  as  tinder  and  they  crackle  with 

the  heat, 
And  the  sparks,  like  merry  children,  come  a-dancing 

round  my  feet, 
In  the  cold,  long  nights  of  autumn   I   can  sit  before 

the  blaze 

And  watch  a  panorama  born  of  all  my  yesterdays. 
I  can  leave  the  present  burdens   and  that  moment's 

bit  of  woe, 
And  claim  once  more  the  gladness  of  the  bygone  long 

ago. 

There  are  no  absent  faces   in  the  grate  fire's  merry 

throng; 
No  hands  in  death  are  folded,  and  no  lips  are  stilled 

to  song. 
All  the  friends  who  were  are  living — like  the  sparks 

that  fly  about; 


The     Grate     Fire* 

From  a  drawing  by  W.  T.  B  E  N  D  A. 


They  come  romping  out  to  greet  me  with  the  same  old 
merry  shout, 

Till  it  seems  to  me  I'm  playing  once  again  on  boy 
hood's  stage, 

Where  there's  no  such  thing  as  sorrow  and  there's  no 
such  thing  as  age. 

I  can  be  the  care-free  schoolboy!  I  can  play  the  lover, 
too! 

I  can  walk  through  Maytime  orchards  with  the  old 
sweetheart  I  knew; 

I  can  dream  the  glad  dreams  over,  greet  the  old 
familiar  friends 

In  a  land  where  there's  no  parting  and  the  laughter 
never  ends. 

All  the  gladness  life  has  given  from  a  grate  fire  I  re 
claim, 

And  I'm  sorry  for  the  fellow  who  can  only  see  the 
flame. 


THE    KINDLY    NEIGHBOR 

I  HAVE  a  kindly  neighbor,  one  who  stands 
Beside  my  gate  and  chats  with  me  awhile, 
Gives  me  the  glory  of  his  radiant  smile 
And  comes  at  times  to  help  with  willing  hands. 

No  station  high  or  rank  this  man  commands, 
He,  too,  must  trudge,  as  I,  the  long  day's  mile; 
And  yet,  devoid  of  pomp  or  gaudy  style, 

He  has  a  worth  exceeding  stocks  or  lands. 

To  him  I  go  when  sorrow's  at  my  door, 

On  him  I  lean  when  burdens  come  my  way, 

Together  oft  we  talk  our  trials  o'er 

And  there  is  warmth  in  each  good-night  we  say. 

A  kindly  neighbor!     Wars  and  strife  shall  end 

When  man  has  made  the  man  next  door  his  friend. 


[42] 


THE   TEARS   EXPRESSIVE 

DEATH  crossed  his  threshold  yesterday 

And  left  the  glad  voice  of  his  loved  one  dumb. 
To  him  the  living  now  will  come 

And  cross  his  threshold  in  the  self-same  way 

To  clasp  his  hand  and  vainly  try  to  say 

Words  that  shall  soothe  the  heart  that's  stricken 
numb. 

And  I  shall  be  among  them  in  that  place 
So  still  and  silent,  where  she  used  to  sing — 
The  glad,  sweet  spirit  that  has  taken  wing — 
Where  shone  the  radiance  of  her  lovely  face, 
And  where  she  met  him  oft  with  fond  embrace, 
I  shall  step  in  to  share  his  sorrowing. 

Beside  the  staircase  that  has  known  her  hand 
And  in  the  hall  her  presence  made  complete, 
The  home  her  life  endowed  with  memories  sweet 
Where  everything  has  heard  her  sweet  command 
And  seems  to  wear  her  beauty,  I  shall  stand 

Wondering  just  how  to  greet  him  when  we  meet. 

I  dread  the  very  silence  of  the  place, 

I  dread  our  meeting  and  the  time  to  speak — 
Speech  seems  so  vain  when  sorrow's  at  the  peak! 
Yet  though  my  words  lack  soothing  power  or  grace, 
Perhaps  he'll  catch  their  meaning  in  my  face 
And  read  the  tears  which  glisten  on  my  cheek. 


[43 


THE   JOYS   WE   MISS 

THERE  never  comes  a  lonely  day  but  what  we  miss  the 

laughing  ways 
Of  those  who  used  to  walk  with  us  through   all  our 

happy  yesterdays. 
We  seldom   miss  the  earthly  great — the  famous  men 

that  life  has  known — 
But,  as  the  years  go  racing  by,  we  miss  the  friends  we 

used  to  own. 

The  chair  wherein  he  used  to  sit   recalls  the  kindly 

father  true, 
For,  oh,   so  filled  with  fun  he  was,  and,  oh,  so  very 

much  he  knew! 
And  as  we  face  the  problems  grave  with  which  the 

years  of  life  are  filled, 
We  miss  the  hand  which  guided  us  and  miss  the  voice 

forever  stilled. 

We  little  guessed  how  much  he  did  to  smooth   our 

pathway  day  by  day, 
How  much  of  joy  he  brought  to  us,  how  much  of  care 

he  brushed  away; 
But  now  that  we  must  tread  alone  the  thoroughfare 

of  life,  we  find 
How  many  burdens  we  were  spared  by  him  who  was 

so  brave  and  kind. 


[44] 


The     Joys     We     Miss  " 

From  a  painting  by  M.  L.  BOWER. 


Death  robs  the  living,  not  the  dead — they  sweetly 
sleep  whose  tasks  are  done; 

But  we  are  weaker  than  before  who  still  must  live  and 
labor  on. 

For  when  come  care  and  grief  to  us,  and  heavy  bur 
dens  bring  us  woe, 

We  miss  the  smiling,  helpful  friends  on  whom  we 
leaned  long  years  ago. 

We  miss  the  happy,  tender  ways  of  those  who  brought 
us  mirth  and  cheer; 

We  never  gather  round  the  hearth  but  what  we  wish 
our  friends  were  near; 

For  peace  is  born  of  simple  things — a  kindly  word,  a 
good-night  kiss, 

The  prattle  of  a  babe,  and  love — these  are  the  van 
ished  joys  we  miss. 


[45] 


LITTLE    FEET 

THERE  is  no  music  quite  so  sweet 
As  patter  of  a  baby's  feet. 
Who  never  hears  along  the  hall 
The  sound  of  tiny  feet  that  fall 
Upon  the  floor  so  soft  and  low 
As  eagerly  they  come  or  go, 
Has  missed,  no  matter  who  he  be, 
Life's  most  inspiring  symphony. 

There  is  a  music  of  the  spheres 
Too  fine  to  ring  in  mortal  ears, 
Yet  not  more  delicate  and  sweet 
Than  pattering  of  baby  feet; 
Where'er  I  hear  that  pit-a-pat 
Which  falls  upon  the  velvet  mat, 
Out  of  my  dreamy  nap  I  start 
And  hear  the  echo  in  my  heart. 

'Tis  difficult  to  put  in  words 
The  music  of  the  summer  birds, 
Yet  far  more  difficult  a  thing — 
A  lyric  for  that  pattering; 
Here  is  a  music  telling  me 
Of  golden  joys  that  are  to  be; 
Unheralded  by  horns  and  drums, 
To  me  a  regal  caller  comes. 


[46] 


Now  on  my  couch  I  lie  and  hear 
A  little  toddler  coming  near, 
Coming  right  boldly  to  my  place 
To  pull  my  hair  and  pat  my  face, 
Undaunted  by  my  age  or  size, 
Nor  caring  that  I  am  not  wise — 
A  visitor  devoid  of  sham 
Who  loves  me  just  for  what  I  am. 

* 

This  soft  low  music  tells  to  me 
In  just  a  minute  I  shall  be 
Made  captive  by  a  thousand  charms, 
Held  fast  by  chubby  little  arms, 
For  there  is  one  upon  the  way 
Who  thinks  the  world  was  made  for  play. 
Oh,  where's  the  sound  that's  half  so  sweet 
As  pattering  of  baby  feet? 


[47] 


JUST   LIKE  A   MAN 

THIS  is  the  phrase  they  love  to  say: 

"Just  like  a  man!" 
You  can  hear  it  wherever  you  chance  to  stray: 

"Just  like  a  man!" 

The  wife  of  the  toiler,  the  queen  of  the  king, 
The  bride  with  the  shiny  new  wedding-ring 
And  the  grandmothers,  too,  at  our  sex  will  fling, 

"Just  like  a  man!" 

Cranky  and  peevish  at  times  we  grow: 

"Just  like  a  man!" 
Now  and  then  boastful  of  what  we  know: 

"Just  like  a  man!" 

Whatever  our  failings  from  day  to  day — 
Stingy,  or  giving  our  goods  away — 
With  a  toss  of  her  head,  she  is  sure  to  say, 

"Just  like  a  man!" 

Unannounced  strangers  we  bring  to  tea: 

"Just  like  a  man!" 
Heedless  of  every  propriety: 

"Just  like  a  man!" 

Grumbling  at  money  she  spends  for  spats 
And  filmy  dresses  and  gloves  and  hats, 
Yet  wanting  her  stylishly  garbed,  and  that's 

"Just  like  a  man!" 


[48] 


Unannounced  strangers  we 
bring  to  tea : 

"Just  like  a  man!" 
Heedless  of  every 
propriety: 

"Just  like  a  man!" 


Grumbling  at  money  she  spends 

for  spats 
And  filmy  dresses  and  gloves 

and  hats, 
Yet  wanting  her  stylishly  garbed, 

and  that's 

'kjust  like  a  man!" 


Just     Like     A     Man  '' 

From  a  charcoal  drawing  by  W.  T.  B  E  N  D  A. 


Wanting  attention  from  year  to  year: 

"Just  like  a  man!" 
Seemingly  helpless  when  she's  not  near: 

"Just  like  a  man!" 

Troublesome  often,  and  quick  to  demur, 
Still  remaining  the  boys  we  were, 
Yet  soothed  and  blest  by  the  love  of  her; 

"Just  like  a  man!" 


[49] 


CLINCHING  THE    BOLT 

IT  NEEDED  just  an  extra  turn  to  make  the  bolt  secure, 
A  few  more  minutes  on  the  job  and  then  the  work  was 

sure; 
But  he  begrudged  the  extra  turn,  and  when  the  task 

was  through, 
The  man  was  back  for  more  repairs  in  just  a  day  or 

two. 

Two  men  there  are  in  every  place,   and  one  is  only 

fair, 
The  other  gives  the  extra  turn  to  every  bolt  that's 

there ; 
One  man  is  slip-shod   in  his  work  and  eager  to  be 

quit, 
The  other  never  leaves  a  task  until  he's  sure  of  it. 

The    difference  'twixt   good  and  bad   is  not  so  very 

much, 
A  few  more  minutes   at  the  task,   an   extra   turn   or 

touch, 
A  final  test  that  all  is  right — and  yet  the  men  are 

few 
Who  seem  to  think  it  worth   their   while  these  extra 

things  to  do. 


The  poor  man  knows  as  well  as  does  the  good  man 

how  to  work, 
But  one  takes  pride  in  every  task,  the  other  likes  to 

shirk; 
With  just  as  little  as   he  can,   one  seeks  his  pay  to 

earn, 
The  good  man  always  gives  the  bolt  that  clinching, 

extra  turn. 


HIS   PA 

SOME  fellers'  pas  seem  awful  old, 
An'  talk  like  they  was  going  to  scold, 
An'  their  hair's  all  gone,  an'  they  never  grin 
Or  holler  an'  shout  when  they  come  in. 
They  don't  get  out  in  the  street  an'  play 
The  way  mine  does  at  the  close  of  day. 
It's  just  as  funny  as  it  can  be, 
But  my  pa  doesn't  seem  old  to  me. 

He  doesn't  look  old,  an'  he  throws  a  ball, 

Just  like  a  boy,  with  the  curves  an'  all, 

An'  he   knows    the    kids    by   their   first   names,   too, 

An'  says  they're  just  like  the  boys  he  knew. 

Some  of  the  fellers  are  scared  plumb  stiff 

When  their  fathers  are  near  'em  an'  act  as  if 

They  wuz  doing  wrong  if  they  made  a  noise, 

But  my  pa  seems  to  be  one  of  the  boys. 

It's  funny,  but,  somehow,  I  never  can 
Think  of  my  pa  as  a  grown-up  man. 
He  doesn't  frown  an'  he  doesn't  scold, 
An'  he  doesn't  act  as  though  he  wuz  old. 
He  talks  of  the  things  I  want  to  know, 
Just  like  one  of  our  gang,  an'  so, 
Whenever  we're  out,  it  seems  that  he 
Is  more  like  a  pal  than  a  pa  to  me. 


[52] 


His     Pa  " 

From  a  fainting  by  M.  L.  BOWER. 


EXAMPLE 

PERHAPS  the  victory  shall  not  come  to  me, 
Perhaps  I  shall  not  reach  the  goal  I  seek, 
It  may  be  at  the  last  I  shall  be  weak 

And  falter  as  the  promised  land  I  see; 

Yet  I  must  try  for  it  and  strive  to  be 

All  that  a  conqueror  is.     On  to  the  peak, 

Must  be  my  call — this  way  lies  victory! 

Boy,  take  my  hand  and  hear  me  when  I  speak. 

There  is  the  goal.     In  honor  make  the  fight. 

I  may  not  reach  it  but,  my  boy,  you  can. 
Cling  to  your  faith  and  work  with  all  your  might, 

Some  day  the  world  shall  hail  you  as  a  man. 
And  when  at  last  shall  come  your  happy  day, 
Enough  for  me  that  I  have  shown  the  way. 


[53] 


WINDING  THE   CLOCK 

WHEN  I  was  but  a    little  lad,   my   old    Grandfather 

said 
That  none  should  wind  the  clock  but  he,  and  so,  at 

time  for  bed, 
He'd  fumble  for  the  curious  key  kept  high  upon  the 

shelf 
And  set  aside  that  little  task  entirely  for  himself. 

In  time  Grandfather  passed  away,  and  so  that  duty 

fell 
Unto  my  Father,  who  performed  the  weekly  custom 

well; 
He  held  that  clocks  were  not  to  be  by  careless  persons 

wound, 
And  he  alone  should  turn  the  key  or  move  the  hands 

around. 

I  envied  him  that  little  task,  and  wished  that  I  might 

be 

The  one  to  be  entrusted  with  the  turning  of  the  key; 
But  year  by  year  the  clock  was  his  exclusive  bit  of 

care 
Until  the  day  the  angels  came  and  smoothed  his  silver 

hair. 


[54] 


To-day  the  task  is  mine  to  do,  like  those  who've  gone 

before 
I    am   a  jealous  guardian  of  that  round  and  glassy 

door, 
And  'til  at  my  chamber  door  God's  messenger  shall 

knock 
To  me  alone  shall  be  reserved  the  right  to  wind  the 

clock. 


[55] 


THE    NEED 

WE  WERE  settin'  there  an'  smokin'  of  our  pipes,  dis- 

cussin'  things, 
Like  licker,  votes  for  wimmin,  an'  the  totterin'  throne* 

o'  kings, 
When  he  ups  an'  strokes  his  whiskers  with  his  hanc 

an'  says  t'  me: 
"Changin'  laws  an'  legislatures  ain't,   as  fur  as  I  car 

see, 
Coin*  to  make  this  world  much  better,  unless  some 

how  we  can 
Find  a  way  to  make  a  better  an'  a  finer  sort  o'  man. 

"The  trouble  ain't  with  statutes  or  with  systems — no 

at  all; 
It's  with  humans  jus'  like  we  air  an'  their  petty  way; 

an'  small. 
We  could  stop  our  writin'  law-books  an'  our  regulatin 

rules 
If  a  better  sort  of  manhood  was  the  product  of  ou 

schools. 
For  the  things  that  we  air  needin'  isn't  writin'  fron 

a  pen 
Or  bigger  guns  to  shoot  with,  but  a  bigger  type  o 

men. 

"I  reckon  all  these  problems  air  jest  ornery  like  thi 

weeds. 
They  grow  in  soil  that  oughta  nourish  only   decen 

deeds, 

[56] 


The     Need' 

From  a  painting  by  P  R  u  E  T  T  CARTER. 


An'  they  waste  our  time  an'  fret  us  when,  if  we  were 

thinkin'  straight 

An'  livin'  right,  they  wouldn't  be  so  terrible  and  great. 
A  good  horse  needs  no  snaffle,  an'  a  good  man,  I  opine, 
Doesn't  need  a  law  to  check  him  or  to  force  him  into 

line. 

"If  we  ever  start  in  teachin'  to  our  children,  year  by 

year, 
How  to  live  with  one  another,  there'll  be  less  o'  trouble 

here. 
If  we'd  teach  'em   how  to  neighbor   an'   to   walk   in 

honor's  ways, 
We  could  settle  every  problem  which  the  mind  o'  man 

can  raise. 
What  we're  needin'  isn't  systems   or  some   regulatin' 

plan, 
But  a  bigger  an'  a  finer  an'  a  truer  type  o'  man." 


[57] 


TEN-FINGERED   MICE 

WHEN  a  cake  is  nicely  frosted  and  it's  put  away  for 

tea, 
And  it  looks  as  trim  and  proper  as  a  chocolate  cake 

should  be, 
Would  it  puzzle  you  at  evening  as  you  brought   it 

from  the  ledge 
To  find  the  chocolate  missing  from  its  smooth  and 

shiny  edge? 

As  you  viewed  the  cake  in  sorrow  would  you  look 

around  and  say, 
"Who's  been  nibbling  in  the  pantry  when  he  should 

have  been  at  play?" 
And  if  little  eyes  look  guilty  as  they  hungered  for  a 

slice, 
Would  you  take  Dad's  explanation  that  it  must  have 

been  the  mice? 

Oh,  I'm  sorry  for  the  household  that  can  keep  a 
frosted  cake 

Smooth  and  perfect  through  the  daytime,  for  the 
hearts  of  them  must  ache — 

For  it  must  be  very  lonely  to  be  living  in  a  house 

Where  the  pantry's  never  ravaged  by  a  glad  ten- 
fingered  mouse 


Though  I've  traveled  far  past  forty,  I  confess  that  I, 

myself, 
Even  now  will  nip  a  morsel  from  the  good  things  on 

the  shelf; 
And    I    never   blame    the    youngsters    who    discover 

chocolate  cake 
For  the  tiny  little  samples  which  exultantly  they  take. 


[59] 


THE   THINGS 
THEY  MUSTN'T  TOUCH 

BEEN    down    to   the    art    museum    an'    looked    at    a 

thousand  things, 
The  bodies  of  ancient  mummies   an'  the  treasures  of 

ancient  kings, 
An'  some  of  the  walls  were  lovely,  but  some  of  the 

things  weren't  much, 
But  all  had  a   rail  around  'em,   an'  all  wore  a  sign 

"Don't  touch." 

Now  maybe  an  art  museum  needs  guards  and  a  warn 
ing  sign 

An'  the  hands  of  the  folks  should  never  paw  over  its 
treasures  fine; 

But  I  noticed  the  rooms  were  chilly  with  all  the  joys 
they  hold, 

An'  in  spite  of  the  lovely  pictures,  I'd  say  that  the 
place  is  cold. 

An'  somehow   I   got   to  thinkin'  of  many  a  home  I 

know 
Which  is  kept  like  an  art  museum,  an'  merely  a  place 

for  show; 
They  haven't  railed  off  their  treasures  or  posted    up 

signs  or  such, 
But  all  of  the  children  know  it — there's  a  lot  that  they 

mustn't  touch. 


[60] 


It's  hands  off  the  grand  piano,  keep  out  of  the  finest 

chair, 
Stay  out  of  the  stylish  parlor,  don't  run  on  the  shiny 

stair; 
You  may  look  at  the  velvet  curtains  which  hang  in 

the  stately  hall, 
But  always  and   ever  remember,  they're   not  to  be 

touched  at  all. 

"Don't  touch!"  for  an  art  museum,  is  proper  enough, 

I  know, 
But  my  children's  feet  shall  scamper  wherever  they 

want  to  go, 
And  I  want  no  rare  possessions   or  a  joy  which  has 

cost  so  much, 
From  which  I  must  bar  the   children   and  tell  them 

they  "mustn't  touch." 


[61] 


THE    HARDER   PART 

ITS  MIGHTY  hard  for  Mother — I  am  busy  through  the 

day 
And    the   tasits   of   every   morning   keep   the   gloomy 

thoughts  away, 

And  I'm  not  forever  meeting  with  a  slipper  or  a  gown 
To  remind  me  of  our  sorrow  when  I'm  toiling  in  the 

town. 
But  with  Mother  it   is   different — there's   no   minute 

she  is  free 
From  the  sight  of  things  which   tell   her  of  the  joy 

which  used  to  be. 

She  is  brave   and  she  is   faithful,   and   we   say  we're 

reconciled, 
But  your  hearts  are  always  heavy  once  you've  lest  a 

little  child; 
And  a  man  can  face  his  sorrow  in  a  manly  sort   of 

way, 
For  his  grief  must  quickly  leave  him  when  he's  busy 

through  the  day; 
But  the  mother's  lot  is  harder — she  must  learn  to  sing 

and  smile 
Though  she's  living  in  the  presence  of  her  sorrow  all 

the  while. 

Through  the  room  where  love  once  waited  she  must 

tip-toe  day  by  day, 
She  must  see  through  every  window  where  the  baby 

used  to  play, 

[62] 


And  there's  not  a  thing  she  touches,   nor   a   task  she 

finds  to  do, 
But  it  sets  her  heart  to  aching  and  begins  the  hurt 

anew. 
Oh,  a  man   can   turn   from  sorrow,   for   his   mind   is 

occupied, 
But  the  mother's  lot  is  harder — grief  is  always  at  her 

side. 


YOUTH 

IF  I  had  youth  I'd  bid  the  world  to  try  me; 

I'd  answer  every  challenge  to  my  will. 
Though  mountains  stood  in  silence  to  defy  me, 

I'd  try  to  make  them  subject  to  my  skill. 
I'd  keep  my  dreams  and  follow  where  they  led  me; 

I'd  glory  in  the  hazards  which  abound. 
I'd  eat  the  simple  fare  privations  fed  me, 

And  gladly  make  my  couch  upon  the  ground. 

If  I  had  youth  I'd  ask  no  odds  of  distance, 

Nor  wish  to  tread  the  known  and  level  ways. 
I'd  want  to  meet  and  master  strong  resistance, 

And  in  a  worth-while  struggle  spend  my  days. 
I'd  seek  the  task  which  calls  for  full  endeavor; 

I'd  feel  the  thrill  of  battle  in  my  veins. 
I'd  bear  my  burden  gallantly,  and  never 

Desert  the  hills  to  walk  on  common  plains. 

If  I  had  youth  no  thought  of  failure  lurking 

Beyond  to-morrow's  dawn  should  fright  my  soul. 
Let  failure  strike — it  still  should  find  me  working 

With  faith  that  I  should  some  day  reach  my  goal. 
I'd  dice  with  danger — aye! — and  glory  in  it; 

I'd  make  high  stakes  the  purpose  of  my  throw. 
I'd  risk  for  much,  and  should  I  fail  to  win  it, 

I  would  not  even  whimper  at  the  blow. 


[64] 


Youth  ' 

From  a  drawing  by  W.  T.  B  E  N  n  A. 


If  I  had  youth  no  chains  of  fear  should  bind  me; 

I'd  brave  the  heights  which  older  men  must  shun. 
I'd  leave  the  well-worn  lanes  of  life  behind  me, 

And  seek  to  do  what  men  have  never  done. 
Rich  prizes  wait  for  those  who  do  not  waver; 

The  world  needs  men  to  battle  for  the  truth. 
It  calls  each  hour  for  stronger  hearts  and  braver. 

This  is  the  age  for  those  who  still  have  youth! 


(65] 


ACCOMPLISHED   CARE 

ALL  THINGS  grow  lovely  in  a  little  while, 
The  brush  of  memory  paints  a  canvas  fair; 

The  dead  face  through  the  ages  wears  a  smile, 
And  glorious  becomes  accomplished  care. 

There's  nothing  ugly  that  can  live  for  long, 
There's  nothing  constant  in  the  realm  of  pain; 

Right  always  comes  to  take  the  place  of  wrong, 
Who  suffers  much  shall  find  the  greater  gain. 

Life  has  a  kindly  way,  despite  its  tears 

And  all  the  burdens  which  its  children  bear; 

It  crowns  with  beauty  all  the  troubled  years 

And  soothes  the  hurts  and    makes    their    memory 
fair. 

Be  brave  when  days  are  bitter  with  despair, 
Be  true  when  you  are  made  to  suffer  wrong; 

Life's  greatest  joy  is  an  accomplished  care, 
There's  nothing  ugly  that  can  live  for  long. 


[66] 


BULB   PLANTING  TIME 

LAST  night  he  said  the  dead  were  dead 
And  scoffed  my  faith  to  scorn; 

I  found  him  at  a  tulip  bed 
When  I  passed  by  at  morn. 

"O  ho!"  said  I,  "the  frost  is  near 

And  mist  is  on  the  hills, 
And  yet  I  find  you  planting  here 

Tulips  and  daffodils." 

"Tis  time  to  plant  them  now,"  he  said, 

"If  they  shall  bloom  in  Spring"; 
"But  every  bulb,"  said  I,  "seems  dead, 
And  such  an  ugly  thing." 

"The  pulse  of  life  I  cannot  feel, 
The  skin  is  dried  and  brown. 

Now  look!"  a  bulb  beneath  my  heel 
I  crushed  and  trampled  down. 

In  anger  then  he  said  to  me: 
"You've  killed  a  lovely  thing; 

A  scarlet  blossom  that  would  be 
Some  morning  in  the  Spring." 

"Last  night  a  greater  sin  was  thine," 

To  him  I  slowly  said; 
"You  trampled  on  the  dead  of  mine 

And  told  me  they  are  dead." 

[67] 


HIS  OTHER   CHANCE 

HE  WAS  down  and  out,  and  his  pluck  was  gone, 

And  he  said  to  me  in  a  gloomy  way: 
"I've  wasted  my  chances,  one  by  one, 

And  I'm  just  no  good,  as  the  people  say. 
Nothing  ahead,  and  my  dreams  all  dust, 

Though    once   there  was  something  I  might  have 

been, 
But  I  wasn't  game,  and  I  broke  my  trust, 

And  I  wasn't  straight  and  I  wasn't  clean." 

"You're  pretty  low  down,"  says  I  to  him, 

"But  nobody's  holding  you  there,  my  friend. 
Life  is  a  stream  where  men  sink  or  swim, 

And  the  drifters  come  to  a  sorry  end; 
But  there's  two  of  you  living  and  breathing  still — 

The  fellow  you  are,  and  he's  tough  to  see, 
And  another  chap,  if  you've  got  the  will, 

The  man  that  you  still  have  a  chance  to  be." 

He  laughed  with  scorn.     "Is  there  two  of  me? 

I  thought  I'd  murdered  the  other  one. 
I  once  knew  a  chap  that  I  hoped  to  be, 

And  he  was  decent,  but  now  he's  gone." 
"Well,"  says  I,  "it  may  seem  to  you 

That  life  has  little  of  joy  in  store, 
But  there's  always  something  you  still  can  do, 

And  there's  never  a  man  but  can  try  once  more. 


[68] 


His     Other     Chance  ': 

From  a  drawing  by  W.  T.  B  E  N  D  A. 


"There  are  always  two  to  the  end  of  time — 

The  fellow  we  are  and  the  future  man. 
The  Lord  never  meant  you  should  cease  to  climb, 

And  you  can  get  up  if  you  think  you  can. 
The  fellow  you  are  is  a  sorry  sight, 

But  you  needn't  go  drifting  out  to  sea. 
Get  hold  of  yourself  and  travel  right; 

There's  a  fellow  you've  still  got  a  chance  to  be.' 


[69] 


THE    FAMILY   DOCTOR 

I'VE  TRIED  the  high-toned  specialists,  who  doctor  folks 

to-day; 
I've  heard  the  throat  man  whisper  low  "Come  on  now 

let  us  spray"; 

I've  sat  in  fancy  offices  and  waited  long  my  turn, 
And  paid  for  fifteen  minutes  what  it  took  a  week  to 

earn; 

But  while  these  scientific  men  are  kindly,  one  and  all, 
I  miss  the  good  old  doctor  that  my  mother  used  to 

call. 

The  old-time  family  doctor!     Oh,  I  am  sorry  that  he's 

gone, 

He  ushered  us  into  the  world  and  knew  us  every  one; 
He  didn't  have  to  ask  a  lot  of  questions,  for  he  knew 
Our  histories  from  birth  and  all  the  ailments  we'd  been 

through. 
And  though  as  children  small  we  feared  the  medicines 

he'd  send, 
The  old-time   family  doctor  grew  to  be  our  dearest 

friend. 

No  hour  too  late,  no  night  too  rough  for  him  to  heed 

our  call; 
He  knew  exactly  where  to  hang  his  coat  up  in  the 

hall; 
He  knew  exactly  where  to  go,  which  room  upstairs  to 

find 


The    patient    he'd    been    called    to   see,    and    saying: 

"Never  mind, 
I'll  run  up  there  myself  and  see  what's  causing  all  the 

fuss." 
It  seems  we  grew  to  look  and  lean  on  him  as  one  of  us. 

He  had  a  big  and  kindly  heart,  a  fine  and  tender  way, 
And  more  than  once  I've  wished  that  I  could  call  him 

in  to-day. 

The  specialists  are  clever  men  and  busy  men,  I  know, 
And  haven't  time  to  doctor  as  they  did  long  years  ago; 
But  some  day  he  may  come  again,  the  friend  that  we 

can  call, 
The  good  old  family  doctor  who  will  love  us  one  and 

all. 


DENIAL 

I'D  LIKE  to  give  'em  all  they  ask — it  hurts  to  have  to 

answer,  "No," 
And  say  they  cannot  have  the  things  they  tell  me  they 

are  wanting  so; 
Yet  now  and  then  they  plead  for  what  I  know  would 

not  be  good  to  give 
Or  what  I  can't  afford  to  buy,  and  that's  the  hardest 

hour  I  live. 

They  little  know  or  understand  how  happy  I  would 

be  to  grant 
Their  every  wish,  yet  there  are  times  it  isn't  wise,  or 

else  I  can't. 
And  sometimes,  too,  I  can't  explain  the  reason  when 

they  question  why 
Their  pleadings  for  some  passing  joy  it  is  my  duty  to 

deny. 

I  only  know  I'd  like  to  see  them  smile  forever  on  life's 

way; 
I  would  not  have  them  shed  one  tear  or  ever  meet  a 

troubled  day. 
And  I  would  be  content  with  life  and  gladly  face  each 

dreary  task, 
If  I  could  always  give  to  them  the  little  treasures  that 

they  ask. 


[72] 


Denial  ' 

From  a  painting  by  F.  C.  Y  o  H  N. 


Sometimes  we  pray  to  God  above   and   ask  for  joys 

that  are  denied, 
And  when  He  seems  to  scorn  our  plea,  in  bitterness  we 

turn  aside. 
And  yet  the  Father  of  us  all,  Who  sees  and  knows  just 

what  is  best, 
May  wish,  as  often  here  we  wish,  that  He  could  grant 

what  we  request. 


I  73l 


THE   WORKMAN'S   DREAM 

TO-DAY  it's  dirt  and  dust  and  steam, 

Tomorrow  it  will  be  the  same, 
And  through  it  all  the  soul  must  dream 

And  try  to  play  a  manly  game; 
Dirt,  dust  and  steam  and  harsh  commands, 

Yet  many  a  soft  hand  passes  by 
And  only  thinks  he  understands 

The  purpose  of  my  task  and  why. 

I've  seen  men  shudder  just  to  see 

Me  standing  at  this  lathe  of  mine, 
And  knew  somehow  they  pitied  me, 

But  I  have  never  made  a  whine; 
For  out  of  all  this  dirt  and  dust 

And  clang  and  clamor  day  by  day, 
Beyond  toil's  everlasting  "must," 

I  see  my  little  ones  at  play. 

The  hissing  steam  would  drive  me  mad 

If  hissing  steam  was  all  I  heard; 
But  there's  a  boy  who  calls  me  dad 

Who  daily  keeps  my  courage  spurred; 
And  there's  a  little  girl  who  waits 

Each  night  for  all  that  I  may  bring, 
And  I'm  the  guardian  of  their  fates, 

Which  makes  this  job  a  wholesome  thing. 


[74] 


Beyond  the  dust  and  dirt  and  steam 

I  see  a  college  where  he'll  go; 
And  when  I  shall  fulfill  my  dream, 

More  than  his  father  he  will  know; 
And  she  shall  be  a  woman  fair, 

Fit  for  the  world  to  love  and  trust- 
I'll  give  my  land  a  glorious  pair 

Out  of  this  place  of  dirt  and  dust. 


[75! 


THE   HOMELY   MAN 

LOOKS  as  though  a  cyclone  hit  him — 
Can't  buy  clothes  that  seem  to  fit  him; 
An'  his  cheeks  are  rough  like  leather, 
Made  for  standin'  any  weather. 
Outwards  he  wuz  fashioned  plainly, 
Loose  o'  joint  an'  blamed  ungainly, 
But  I'd  give  a  lot  if  I'd 
Been  prepared  so  fine  inside. 

Best  thing  I  can  tell  you  of  him 
Is  the  way  the  children  love  him. 
Now  an*  then  I  get  to  thinkin' 
He  is  much  like  old  Abe  Lincoln — 
Homely  like  a  gargoyle  graven, 
An'  looks  worse  when  he's  unshaven; 
But  I'd  take  his  ugly  phiz 
Jes'  to  have  a  heart  like  his. 

I  ain't  over-sentimental, 
But  old  Blake  is  so  blamed  gentle 
An'  so  thoughtful-like  of  others 
He  reminds  us  of  our  mothers. 
Rough  roads  he  is  always  smoothin', 
An'  his  way  is,  oh,  so  soothin' 
That  he  takes  away  the  sting 
When  your  heart  is  sorrowing. 


The     Homely     Man" 

From  a  painting  by  M.  L.   BOVVER. 


Children  gather  round  about  him 

Like  they  can't  get  on  without  him. 

An'  the  old  depend  upon  him, 

Pilin*  all  their  burdens  on  him, 

Like  as  though  the  thing  that  grieves  'em 

Has  been  lifted  when  he  leaves  'em. 

Homely?     That  can't  be  denied. 

But  he's  glorious  inside. 


77 


UNCHANGEABLE   MOTHER 

MOTHERS  never  change,  I  guess, 
In  their  tender  thoughtfulness. 
Makes  no  difference  that  you  grow 
Up  to  forty  years  or  so, 
Once  you  cough,  you'll  find  that  she 
Sees  you  as  you  used  to  be, 
An*  she  wants  to  tell  to  you 
All  the  things  that  you  must  do. 

Just  show  symptoms  of  a  cold, 
She'll  forget  that  you've  grown  old. 
Though  there's  silver  in  your  hair, 
Still  you  need  a  mother's  care, 
An'  she'll  ask  you  things  like  these: 
"You  still  wearing  b.  v.  d.'s? 
Summer  days  have  long  since  gone, 
You  should  have  your  flannels  on." 

Grown  and  married  an'  maybe 
Father  of  a  family, 
But  to  mother  you  are  still 
Just  her  boy  when  you  are  ill; 
Just  the  lad  that  used  to  need 
Plasters  made  of  mustard  seed; 
An'  she  thinks  she  has  to  see 
That  you  get  your  flaxseed  tea. 


[78] 


Mothers  never  change,  I  guess, 
In  their  tender  thoughtfulness. 
All  her  gentle  long  life  through 
She  is  bent  on  nursing  you; 
An'  although  you  may  be  grown, 
She  still  claims  you  for  her  own, 
An'  to  her  you'll  always  be 
Just  a  youngster  at  her  knee. 


[79] 


LIFE 

LIFE  is  a  jest; 

Take  the  delight  of  it. 
Laughter  is  best; 

Sing  through  the  night  of  it. 
Swiftly  the  tear 

And  the  hurt  and  the  ache  of  it 
Find  us  down  here; 

Life  must  be  what  we  make  of  it. 

Life  is  a  song; 

Let  us  dance  to  the  thrill  of  it. 
Grief's  hours  are  long, 

And  cold  is  the  chill  of  it. 
Joy  is  man's  need; 

Let  us  smile  for  the  sake  of  it. 
This  be  our  creed: 

Life  must  be  what  we  make  of  it. 

Life  is  a  soul; 

The  virtue  and  vice  of  it. 
Strife  for  a  goal, 

And  man's  strength  is  the  price  of  it. 
Your  life  and  mine, 

The  bare  bread  and  the  cake  of  it, 
End  in  this  line: 

Life  must  be  what  we  make  of  it. 


"  Life  r 
From  a  charcoal  drai^iny  by  \V.  T.  B  E  N  D  A. 


SUCCESS 

THIS  I   would   claim  for   my  success — not  fame  nor 

gold, 

Nor  the  throng's  changing  cheers  from  day  to  day, 
Not  always  ease  and  fortune's  glad  display, 

Though  all  of  these  are  pleasant  joys  to  hold; 

But  I  would  like  to  have  my  story  told 

By  smiling  friends  with  whom  I've  shared  the  way, 

Who,  thinking  of  me,  nod  their  heads  and  say: 

''His  heart  was  warm  when  other  hearts  were  cold. 

"None  turned  to  him  for  aid  and  found  it  not, 
His  eyes  were  never  blind  to  man's  distress, 

Youth  and  old  age  he  lived,  nor  once  forgot 
The  anguish  and  the  ache  of  loneliness; 

His  name  was  free  from  stain  or  shameful  blot 

And  in  his  friendship  men  found  happiness." 


[81] 


THE   LONELY   OLD    FELLOW 

THE  ROSES  are  bedded  for  winter,  the  tulips  are  planted 
for  spring; 

The  robins  and  martins  have  left  us;  there  are  only 
the  sparrows  to  sing. 

The  garden  seems  solemnly  silent,  awaiting  its  blan 
kets  of  snow, 

And  I  feel  like  a  lonely  old  fellow  with  nowhere  to 
turn  or  to  go. 

All    summer   I've  hovered    about  them,   all   summer 

they've  nodded  at  me; 
I've  wandered  and  waited  among  them  the  first  pink 

of  blossom  to  see; 
I've  known  them  and  loved  and  caressed  them,  and 

now  all  their  splendor  has  fled, 
And  the  harsh  winds  of  winter  all  tell  me  the  friends 

of  my  garden  are  dead. 

I'm  a  lonely  old  fellow,   that's   certain.     All    winter 

with  nothing  to  do 
But  sit  by  the  window  recalling  the  days  when  my 

skies  were  all  blue; 
But  my  heart  is  not  given  to  sorrow  and  never  my 

lips  shall  complain, 
For  winter  shall  pass  and  the  sunshine  shall  give  me 

my  roses  again. 


[82] 


And  so  for  the  friends  that  have  vanished,  the  friends 

that  they  tell  me  are  dead, 
Who  have  traveled  the  road  to  God's  Acres  and  sleep 

where  the  willows  are  spread; 
They  have  left  me  a  lonely  old  fellow  to  sit  here  and 

dream  by  the  pane, 
But  I  know,  like  the  friends  of  my  garden,  we  shall 

all  meet  together  again. 


[83] 


SOMEBODY   ELSE 

SOMEBODY  wants  a  new  bonnet  to  wear; 

Somebody  wants  a  new  dress; 
Somebody  needs  a  new  bow  for  her  hair, 

And  never  the  wanting  grows  less. 
Oh,  this  is  the  reason  I  labor  each  day 

And  this  is  the  joy  of  my  tasks: 
That  deep  in  the  envelope  holding  my  pay 

Is  something  that  somebody  asks. 

I  could  go  begging  for  water  and  bread 

And  travel  the  highways  of  ease, 
But  somebody  wants  a  roof  over  his  head 

And  stockings  to  cover  his  knees. 
I  could  go  shirking  the  duties  of  life 

And  laugh  when  necessity  pleads, 
But  rather  I  stand  to  the  toil  and  the  strife 

To  furnish  what  somebody  needs. 

Somebody  wants  what  I've  strength  to  supply, 

And  somebody's  waiting  for  me 
To  come  home  to-night  with  money  to  buy 

Her  bread  and  her  cake  and  her  tea. 
And  as  I  am  strong  so  her  laughter  will  ring, 

And  as  I  am  true  she  will  smile; 
It's  the  somebody  else  of  the  toiler  or  king 

That  makes  all  the  struggle  worth  while. 


[84] 


"Somebody     Else  ' 

From  a  charcoal  draiving  by  M.  L.  BOWER. 


Somebody  needs  all  the  courage  I  own, 

And  somebody's  trust  is  in  me; 
For  never  a  man  who  can  go  it  alone, 

Whatever  his  station  may  be. 
So  I  stand  to  my  task  and  I  stand  to  my  care, 

And  struggle  to  come  to  success, 
For  the  ribbons  to  tie  up  somebody's  hair, 

And  my  somebody's  pretty  new  dress. 


EFFORT 

HE  BROUGHT  me  his  report  card  from  the  teacher  and 

he  said 

He  wasn't  very  proud  of  it  and  sadly  bowed  his  head. 
He  was  excellent  in  reading,  but  arithmetic,  was  fair, 
And  I  noticed  there  were  several  "unsatisfactorys" 

there; 
But  one  little  bit  of  credit  which  was  given   brought 

me  joy — 
He  was  "excellent  in  effort,"  and  I  fairly  hugged  the 

boy. 

"Oh,  it  doesn't  make  much  difference  what  is  written 

on  your  card," 

I  told  that  little  fellow,  "if  you're  only  trying  hard. 
The    'very   goods'  and   'excellents'   are    fine,   I   must 

agree, 
But  the  effort  you  are  making  means  a  whole  lot  more 

to  me; 
And  the  thing  that's  most  important  when  this  card  is 

put  aside 
Is  to  know,  in  spite  of  failure,   that  to  do  your  best 

you've  tried. 

"Just  keep  excellent  in  effort — all  the  rest  will  come 

to  you. 
There  isn't  any  problem  but  some  day  you'll  learn 

to  do, 


[86] 


And  at  last,  when  you  grow  older,  you  will  come  to 

understand 
That  by  hard  and  patient  toiling  men  have  risen  to 

command 
And  some  day  you  will  discover  when  a  greater  goal's 

at  stake 
That  better  far  than  brilliance  is  the  effort  you  will 

make." 


[87] 


LIVING 

THE  MISER  thinks  he's  living  when  he's  hoarding  up  his 

gold; 
The  soldier  calls  it  living  when  he's  doing  something 

bold; 

The  sailor  thinks  it  living  to  be  tossed  upon  the  sea, 
And  upon  this  very  subject  no  two  men  of  us  agree. 
But  I  hold  to  the  opinion,  as  I  walk  my  way  along, 
That  living's  made  of  laughter    and  good-fellowship 

and  song. 

I  wouldn't  call  it  living  to  be  always  seeking  gold, 
To  bank  all  the  present  gladness  for  the  days  when 

I'll  be  old. 
I  wouldn't  call  it  living  to  spend  all  my  strength  for 

fame, 
And  forego  the  many  pleasures  which  to-day  are  mine 

to  claim. 
I  wouldn't  for  the  splendor  of  the  world  set  out  to 

roam, 
And  forsake  my  laughing  children   and  the  peace   I 

know  at  home. 

Oh,  the  thing  that  I  call  living  isn't  gold  or  fame  at 

all! 
It's    fellowship    and    sunshine,   and  it's  roses  by  the 

wall. 
It's  evenings  glad  with  music  and  a  hearth-fire  that's 

ablaze, 


[88] 


"Living  ' 
From  a  painting  by  FRANK  X.  L  E  Y  E  N  D  E  c  K  E  R. 


And  the  joys  which  come  to  mortals  in  a  thousand 

different  ways. 
It  is  laughter  and  contentment  and  the  struggle  for  a 

goal; 
It  is  everything  that's  needful  in  the  shaping  of    a 

soul. 


A   WARM    HOUSE 
AND   A   RUDDY   FIRE 

A  WARM  house  and  a  ruddy  fire, 
To  what  more  can  man  aspire? 
Eyes  that  shine  with  love  aglow, 
Is  there  more  for  man  to  know? 

Whether  home  be  rich  or  poor, 
If  contentment  mark  the  door 
He  who  finds  it  good  to  live 
Has  the  best  that  life  can  give. 

This  the  end  of  mortal  strife! 
Peace  at  night  to  sweeten  life, 
Rest  when  mind  and  body  tire, 
At  contentment's  ruddy  fire. 

Rooms  where  merry  songs  are  sung, 
Happy  old  and  glorious  young; 
These,  if  perfect  peace  be  known, 
Both  the  rich  and  poor  must  own. 

A  warm  house  and  a  ruddy  fire, 
These  the  goals  of  all  desire, 
These  the  dream  of  every  man 
Since  God  spoke  and  life  began. 


[90] 


THE   ONE   IN   TEN 

NINE  passed  him  by  with  a  hasty  look, 

Each  bent  on  his  eager  way; 
One  glance  at  him  was  the  most  they  took, 

"Somebody  stuck,"  said  they; 
But  it  never  occurred  to  the  nine  to  heed 
A  stranger's  plight  and  a  stranger's  need. 

The  tenth  man  looked  at  the  stranded  car, 

And  he  promptly  stopped  his  own. 
"Let's  see  if  I  know  what  your  troubles   are," 

Said  he  in  a  cheerful  tone; 

"Just  stuck  in  the  mire.     Here's  a  cable  stout, 
Hitch  onto  my  bus  and  I'll  pull  you  out." 

"A  thousand  thanks,"  said  the  stranger  then, 

"For  the  debt  that  I  owe  you; 
I've  counted  them  all  and  you're  one  in  ten 

Such  a  kindly  deed  to  do." 

And  the  tenth  man  smiled  and  he  answered  then, 
"Make  sure  that  you'll  be  the  one  in  ten." 

Are  you  one  of  the  nine  who  pass  men  by 

In  this  hasty  life  we  live? 
Do  you  refuse  with  a  downcast  eye 

The  help  which  you  could  give? 
Or  are  you  the  one  in  ten  whose  creed 
Is  always  to  stop  for  the  man  in  need? 


[91] 


TO  A   YOUNG   MAN 

THE  GREAT  were  once  as  you. 
They  whom  men  magnify  to-day 
Once  groped  and  blundered  on  life's  way, 
Were  fearful  of  themselves,  and  thought 
By  magic  was  men's  greatness  wrought. 
They  feared  to  try  what  they  could  do; 
Yet  Fame  hath  crowned  with  her  success 
The  selfsame  gifts  that  you  possess. 

The  great  were  young  as  you, 
Dreaming  the  very  dreams  you  hold, 
Longing  yet  fearing  to  be  bold, 
Doubting  that  they  themselves  possessed 
The  strength  and  skill  for  every  test, 
Uncertain  of  the  truths  they  knew, 
Not  sure  that  they  could  stand  to  fate 
With  all  the  courage  of  the  great. 

Then  came  a  day  when  they 
Their  first  bold  venture  made, 
Scorning  to  cry  for  aid. 
They  dared  to  stand  to  fight  alone, 
Took  up  the  gauntlet  life  had  thrown, 
Charged  full-front  to  the  fray, 
Mastered  their  fear  of  self,  and  then, 
Learned  that  our  great  men  are  but  men. 


[92] 


To     A     Young     Man' 

From  a  charcoal  draining  by  W.  T.  B  E  N  D  A. 


Oh,  youth,  go  forth  and  do! 

You,  too,  to  fame  may  rise; 

You  can  be  strong  and  wise. 

Stand  up  to  life  and  play  the  man — 

You  can  if  you'll  but  think  you  can; 

The  great  were  once  as  you. 

You  envy  them  their  proud  success  ? 

'Twas  won  with  gifts  that  you  possess. 


[93] 


AFRAID   OF   HIS   DAD 

BILL  JONES,  who  goes  to  school  with  me, 
Is  the  saddest  boy  I  ever  see. 
He's  just  so  'fraid  he  runs  away 
When  all  of  us  fellows  want  to  play, 
An'  says  he  dassent  stay  about 
Coz  if  his  father  found  it  out 
He'd  wallop  him.     An'  he  can't  go 
With  us  to  see  a  picture  show 
On  Saturdays,  an'  it's  too  bad, 
But  he's  afraid  to  ask  his  dad. 

When  he  gets  his  report  card,  he 
Is  just  as  scared  as  scared  can  be, 
An'  once  I  saw  him  when  he  cried 
Becoz  although  he'd  tried  an'  tried 
His  best,  the  teacher  didn't  care 
An'  only  marked  his  spelling  fair, 
An'  he  told  me  there'd  be  a  fight 
When  his  dad  saw  his  card  that  night. 
It  seems  to  me  it's  awful  bad 
To  be  so  frightened  of  your  dad. 

My  Dad  ain't  that  way — I  can  go 

An'  tell  him  everything  I  know, 

An'  ask  him  things,  an'  when  he  comes 

Back  home  at  night  he  says  we're  chums; 

An'  we  go  out  an'  take  a  walk, 


[94] 


An'  all  the  time  he  lets  me  talk. 
I  ain't  scared  to  tell  him  what 
I've  done  to-day  that  I  should  not; 
When  I  get  home  I'm  always  glad 
To  stay  around  an'  play  with  Dad. 

Bill  Jones,  he  says,  he  wishes  he 
Could  have  a  father  just  like  me, 
But  his  dad  hasn't  time  to  play, 
An'  so  he  chases  him  away 
An'  scolds  him  when  he  makes  a  noise 
An'  licks  him  if  he  breaks  his  toys. 
Sometimes  Bill  says  he's  got  to  lie 
Or  else  get  whipped,  an'  that  is  why 
It  seems  to  me  it's  awful  bad 
To  be  so  frightened  of  your  dad. 


SERVICE 

I  HAVE  no  wealth  of  gold  to  give  away, 
But  I  can  pledge  to  worthy  causes  these: 
I'll  give  my  strength,  my  days  and  hours  of  ease, 

My  finest  thought  and  courage  when  I  may, 

And  take  some  deed  accomplished  for  my  pay. 
I  cannot  offer  much  in  silver  fees, 

But  I  can  serve  when  richer  persons  play, 
And  with  my  presence  fill  some  vacancies. 

There  are  some  things  beyond  the  gift  of  gold, 
A  richer  treasure's  needed  now  and  then; 

Some  joys   life   needs   which    are    not    bought    and 

sold — 
The  high  occasion  often  calls  for  men. 

Some  for  release  from  service  give  their  pelf, 

But  he  gives  most  who  freely  gives  himself. 


[96] 


•  . 


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